poet, and their burden should be long remembered, for they have power to refine

"How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The plough-boy's whistle and the milk-maid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of teded grass, mingled with the faded flowers
That yester-morn bloomed, waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellow from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the bubbling brook
Courses more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, where curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

The voice of psalms,

the simple song of praise.

"With dove-like wings, peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil s din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;

And, as his stiff unwieldly bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray."

Grahame.

SOMETHING ABOUT BELLS.

I HAVE always loved the sound of bells. Sometimes, it is true, their music is associated with distress and gloom; but even then they have a voice of instruction. But how often do they re-create scenes which swell the heart with gladness, and make us feel there is much that is good and beautiful in human nature! Who does not love to listen to their music on the sacred Sabbath, in the midst of a great city?

It is the morning of a day in June. what a solemn tone do they call worshippers

to the house of God!

With

The streets, which a

few hours ago seemed wellnigh deserted, are

points upwards to a

now thronged with people. The old man, trudging along upon his staff; the bright-eyed maiden, with her sylph-like form; parents and children; the happy and the sorrowful, all are hastening to their devotions. The bells are again silent. The swelling notes of the organ now fall upon the ear. Let us enter this ancient pile, whose spire "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." A great multitude fills its aisles. The first psalm has been sung. Listen now to the humble, devout prayer of the grayhaired pastor. Anon, the sermon commences. A breathless silence prevails; while from the speaker's tongue, flow forth "instruction, admiration, comfort, peace."

Is there any thing on earth more beautiful than a scene like this? Does it not speak to us of that "continual city," whose maker and builder is God? whose streets are paved

with gold, whose inhabitants are the children of the All-benevolent?

How different the scene which the fire-bell brings before the mind! Its sudden strokes

seem to articulate the fearful word, "Fire!

struction is going on.

fire! fire!" We know the work of deWe hear the rattling engines over the stony streets, the confused cry of men, and the wailings of distress. The rich man's dwelling is wrapped in flames, with the humble abode of his poor neighbour. The flame-banners flout the air; the smoke rises upward, and mingles with the midnight clouds.

The confusion is passed. On the spot where stood the fairest portion of a noble city, a heap of smouldering ashes alone arrests the eye. The rich man has been reduced to poverty; the poor man is still more poor! God help him, and his helpless little ones!

Ennobling thoughts spring up within us, when we hear the many-voiced bells, on a day of public rejoicing. They may speak to us of blood, but yet they tell of glorious victories. They may commemorate the triumphs of mind, or the noble achievements of the philanthropic and the good. Peal on peal echoes through the air, mingled with martial

music, and the roaring of cannon, while a thousand national standards float gayly in the breeze. Touching and grand is the music of bells, on such a day as this!

In the silent watches of the night, how often have I been startled by the sound of a neighbouring clock! My mind has then gone forth, to wander over the wide region of thought. Then the bells have seemed to me to be the minstrels of Time; an old man, with bent form, his scythe and hour-glass in his withered hands. All over the world are his stationary minstrels; striking their instruments, and heaving a sigh for the thoughtlessness of men. At such an hour, when the world was wrapped in silence at the sound of a bell, the past has vanished like a scroll, and I have been borne, as on eagles' wings, back to the days of my boyhood. I have sported and gambolled with my playmates on the village green; hunted the wild duck; explored lonely valleys, or sailed upon the lake, which almost washed the threshold of my happy home; and gazed into its clear